


Rosemary for memory

by Kaiyo_no_Hime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: After Episode 6, Angst, Character Death, Hanahaki Disease, Jaskier suffers for the fandom, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, happy endings are a fairy tale that bards sing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22240807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyo_no_Hime/pseuds/Kaiyo_no_Hime
Summary: Jaskier comes to terms with his life after finding he is suffering from the courtly disease, hanahaki.  He wants nothing more than to spend the rest of his days singing sweet odes to his beloved Witcher.So, when their paths cross again, he is happy to rejoin the stoic man and silently suffer his final days in his presence.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 565
Kudos: 3478
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development, Throat Flowers





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Rosemary for memory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22578250) by [NoxMoonStone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoxMoonStone/pseuds/NoxMoonStone)



Jaskier sat in the small house at the edge of town, his face tired and drawn, and relaxed in the smell of the herbs hanging from the ceiling. The fire was too warm for mid spring, but he found himself trying not to doze in the hard chair anyway, his eyes flickering as he stared at the dancing flames.

The old woman shook his shoulder and pushed a mug of steaming tea in his hands with a sad smile, and Jaskier accepted it gratefully. He grimaced as he sipped at the bitter brew, but continued to drink it. It was why he was here after all, for medicine.

“It’s not a cure,” the healer said, lowering herself carefully onto another rickety chair, “But it should help, for a time.”

“How long,” Jaskier asked, coughing into his hand after draining the mug, “It’s not that bad yet, not really. A few decades?”

He knew he didn’t have a few decades. No one suffering from the ‘courtly curse’ ever had a few decades. At least, not in any tale he had ever heard. A few years he hoped. A few more years to tour the land, singing praises to the great white wolf and his epic quests. A few more years to remember, and maybe find a way to help in any way he could. Not that he could. Geralt made that quite clear.

“A year, maybe,” the old healer sighed, “Maybe two or three. The teas will help. But rest would help more.”

“That’s not in my cards,” Jaskier sighed, handing the mug back to her, “My feet would never stand it.”

She continued to hold out her hand, and Jaskier sighed and handed the two petals he had coughed up earlier to her. He didn’t have the coin for the herbs that would slow the disease, but the old healer had happily agreed to supply him in exchange for the petals. There was power in them, a rare power, and it was worth more to her than any coin.

As much as he hated parted with anything that reminded him of Geralt, he needed the tea. He would need it to be able to sing, to walk, to breath. A few petals would be missed from the little pouch he had been collecting them in. He would have to leave a note to be buried with them when he finally succumbed.

“Dark as blood, true as blood,” the old healer sighed, “Your love is true and untainted. If you would confess, if they shared your feelings, there’s still time for a kiss to cure.”

Jaskier snorted. He had grown up hearing tales of the courtly disease and how it was always true, and always cured with a confession and a kiss. But he had been around long enough to know what a pile of shit that was. No, there was no confession and kiss to save him.

His white wolf was alone in this world. And he liked it that way. No, for Jaskier there was only his memories and songs, and the longing that caught in his throat and stole his breath and would kill him in the end.

“How long will the tea last,” Jaskier asked.

“A mug in the morning should do you now, but when it gets worse drink with all meals. I’ve packed you enough to last you a few months, but any healer should know the mixture if you run out.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said quietly, “I’ll remember you in a song.”

The old woman snorted and waved the bard out of her house. Jaskier looked at the cloth wrap bundle in his arms and sighed. He could write his own dirge, a beautiful ballad about a love that could never be, and hope that it one day reached Geralt’s ears. 

But he doubted the man would ever even notice if Jaskier himself screamed it in his face.

* * *

Jaskier sighed happily, laying in the grass beside the road, and closed his eyes and took a steady breath. Spring was gently rolling forward toward summer, and the flowers were blossoming across the land. To just lay there, breathing it in as the sun warmed the chill that coursed through his veins was pure happiness. He had nowhere to be especially urgently, and he had enough food in his little pack to make it to the next town with ease. 

He loved being able to enjoy just being alive on days like this. He hoped he would be buried in a field of flowers just as beautiful.

Jaskier ignored the sound of the horse on the road, this area wasn’t known for bandits, and just took in another breath. Rosemary, he smiled, he could smell rosemary, and violets. Dandelions, he decided, he wanted to be buried in a field of dandelions, laughing up at the sun and being beautiful.

The horse stopped near where he lay, and Jaskier looked up, blinking against the brightness as his eyes readjusted.

His face dropped as he recognized the stoic figure. Black clothes, solemn face, white hair, fiery eyes. He must be truly cursed, he decided, for Geralt to find him here. Across all roads in the world, how had they managed to run in to each other?

“Ride on,” Jaskier sighed, “I won’t catch up on foot.”

Geralt wanted him out of his life, and he would try to honor that. No matter how the burning itch in his lungs screamed otherwise. He knew he wasn’t wanted, not by this man, not by the one he had been stupid enough to fall in love with. 

“Roach could use a rest,” Geralt simply said, dismounting and leading the horse to the grass.

Roach, ignoring the rising tension in the air, happily began to eat her fill of the sweet spring grass. 

Jaskier sighed and cursed internally, never letting the smile slip from his face. He had been enjoying himself, relaxing and letting his mind wander. Letting himself think without care. Without heartbreak. And of course the world would throw his plans out the window and drop Geralt in his lap. Destiny would taunt him with what he would never have, and what he would always long for.

But now was as good a time as any to continue to tell the world to fuck itself. So he checked his pack and slipped his lute back onto his shoulders and stood carefully. He had had problems with that recently, a touch of dizziness here and there. It was to be expected, the last healer he had seen had warned him. He was taking stronger doses of his teas than advisable, but it was the only way to keep from coughing up flower petals during his songs.

It wouldn’t do for people to realize that his mournful love ballads were about himself. It would depress people. And depressed people did not throw coins to their bard.

He stumbled a step, and Geralt caught him, his hand firm around his shoulder. So strong, so warm, Jaskier had to hold in a sigh and brace himself to pull away. He longed to just sink back into the touch, but he couldn’t. Geralt didn’t want him.

And that memory, those echoing shouts on the mountain top, was what gave Jaskier the strength to pull away. He would not burden himself on the stoic man a moment more.

But Geralt’s grip remained, firm, and Jaskier was forced to turn and look at the man. He was tired, and Jaskier could see a fading mark at his hairline. His hair was neat, but limp against his pale skin. He didn’t look skinnier, but there was something drawn in about him. Lonely.

Oh, his poor wolf. Alone in the world once more. He had heard the rumors of little Cirilla dying during her escape from the fall of Cintra. He couldn’t imagine how that must have rocked the witcher, how he must be tearing himself apart from grief. He should have been there for him, to help him, to comfort him. And instead he had been moping over his own stupid mortality. What was his life compared to Geralt’s needs? He was just human, gone in a breath and a flash, and Geralt would be here for centuries more.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, his voice rough.

Jaskier blinked in surprise, not having expected that. He had never heard Geralt apologize before.

Roach nickered and Jaskier’s face broke into a grin.

“You were forgiven the moment the breath left your lungs, my friend,” Jaskier said, taking a step forward to pull the taller man into a hug.

Geralt just snorted and stepped aside, letting go of the bard’s shoulder. But, to Jaskier, the sun was brighter and the heavens burned with his happiness. He would follow his white wolf and sing of his deeds once more. All was right with the world.

He ignored the itching in his chest, and laughed as Geralt mounted Roach once more. His happiness to just be near him would be enough to soothe his final days. It was all that he could ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I loved the tv series and am halfway through the book series, but this fic will largely be based on the tv series. I'll try to update at least weekly, if not more often, because we all need a little more Jaskier angst in our lives!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier accepted the mug of ale, downing it swiftly before returning to the song and a chorus of applauds. A dainty little ditty he had picked up somewhere along the way about the foresters wife and things that went bump in the night.

He could almost see Geralt, tucked into the shadows at the back of the inn with a mug of ale his own, snorting and rolling his eyes. He didn’t approve of creators that didn’t exist, felt it riled the townsfolk to make monsters of shadows and waste his time. But those stories lined their pouches when there was nothing in the dark to behead, and Jaskier enjoyed it.

He breathed freer with these jaunty little tunes. Not that switching between them and the great ballads of Geralt’s noble deeds helped much these days. Too much time near the man, he supposed. Waking up with petals in his throat, in his mouth, and on his pillow. He was downing stronger tea everyday, and still felt like he had lungs full of cotton on the bad days.

The bad days. When Geralt went to kill the monster and managed to get hurt. When his blood fell in drops on the ground like the flower petals he would cough up that night. Those were the bad days. Those the days that made him want to fall on his knees and confess his feelings while throwing himself in front of Geralt to prevent him from coming to harm. 

Those were the days that made him consider packing up and fleeing into the night, if just to never risk seeing the death of the witcher. Because he knew what would happen if he was there when the brave man fell; he would throw himself after him and follow him into death. 

He finished the jig with a bow, and accepted a new mug of ale as he sauntered over to where Geralt had hidden himself away. Clearly he had impressed the innkeeper given the size of the dinners he had placed on the table. Jaskier grinned, sliding into the chair opposite his grim beloved, and began to dig in.

Singing was as hungry work as it was thirsty.

Geralt’s nose flared, and he frowned. Jaskier just rolled his eyes and took his elbows off the table, not even bothering to wonder why the other man would be concerned about table manners after all this time.

“Your perfume reeks,” Geralt said, taking a drink from his mug.

The food turns to ash in Jaskier’s mouth and he struggled to swallow without coughing. His perfume. Was it the tea? Or could Geralt smell the roses that were burrowing through his lungs, a thorn for every moment that he looked at the handsome man and loved him a second longer? He didn’t think Geralt would be able to smell him, though he had bathed the night before. He would have to be careful, to use the scented oils that reeked of desperation. 

“Sorry, bottle slipped this morning,” Jaskier grinned, “You know how the ladies love their flowers!”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, but he just grunted and returned to glowering at the room. He didn’t say anything as the innkeeper’s daughter brought him a mug of boiled water and he tossed a double sachet of herbs into it.

For his throat, he had explained a few weeks before. A bard had to care for his throat like a witcher his steel. And though Geralt still clearly didn’t enjoy the scent of the concoction, Jaskier wasn’t exactly sure what was in it himself, he never mentioned it again. Jaskier himself was glad to be able to turn and look at the room while he drank it, hiding the pinched face he couldn’t avoid making as he slurped it down. He could handle the sour vileness if it let him be by Geralt’s side a few months longer. A few more months before he couldn’t breath through suffocating rose petals, and would be forced to part with him once more, one way or the other.

“Be more careful with the oils,” Geralt spoke up, “Roach doesn’t like the scent.”

Jaskier turned to look at him with a quizzical smile. Was he blaming his dislike of the smell on his horse? Oh, his sensitive wolf, no one would believe a comment like that. But he just smiled and nodded, taking another sip of the tea. He could pretend for the sake of Roach, if that helped him.

“Where are we off to next,” Jaskier asked, “The fair mountain villas of the north, the delightful coastal hamlets of the west? I have always wanted to sing with a mermaid and get their advice on a stanza or two...”

“North,” Geralt grunted, “I’m meeting with someone.”

Someone with beautiful purple eyes and raven hair, most likely, Jaskier thought. He knew the tone Geralt spoke of Yennifer with. Miserable, guilty, angry, and in love. She was everything he would never be to the witcher. He should laugh and say that he was headed south, or east, or west. He would like to see the coast, to hear the oceans crashing themselves upon the rocks and eating away at the land. 

Maybe he could be burned, and his ashes swept out into the waves to sing eternally against the little coves. That would be more enjoyable than a silent field of dandelions. Though being a wave would be exhausting work and he wasn’t quite sure he was up to it, he did get so tired these days.

Geralt’s nostrils flared again, and she shoved away from the table.

“Dawn, bard,” he snapped, “And no fucking rose oil.”

Jaskier just nodded, and signaled for another mug of hot water. It must be getting worse if Geralt was actually speaking about it instead of just brooding angrily. He should pick up something to mask it the next time they passed by a larger town. Vanilla was pleasant, or cinnamon. Or he could just do as Geralt did and eat onions and not bathe. No one would notice roses through that ripe scent even if they blossomed from his mouth and danced on his breath.

He sighed a thank you and started brewing a second mug of tea.

* * *

_  
And so the coin flashed through the sky  
A dancing flow so bright  
But when the flower faded  
And the gem shone no more  
There was but weeping  
Heard echoing through the night  
_

Jaskier hummed to himself, strumming lightly on his lute as he stared into the darkness beyond the fire, and sighed. The phrasing wasn’t any good, and the imagery didn’t make sense. He wanted to stretch the mourning over the death a little longer. And, perhaps, not compare himself to a damn flower.

He had been thinking about flowers too much. He was halfway tempted to just write a sad dirge about a flower field wilting under the harsh glare of the silver moon until it surrendered and faded away, but someone might actually put two and two together, and he didn’t want to do that. He’d rather die mysteriously than foolishly.

Geralt, having finished his share of the hare, simply ignored him and continued to care for his weapons. Better than him complaining about the noise.

“What’s the stupidest way to die,” Jaskier asked, looking over at Geralt.

Geralt’s hand didn’t even pause on the blade, but Jaskier knew him well enough to know that he was considering the question. His eyes were brighter, and there was the edge of a smirking curl on the left side of his mouth. Barely there, but there for those who knew to look.

“A dull blade,” Geralt finally answered, and Jaskier snorted at that.

“Not tumbling from your maiden’s window, or lost in the swamp,” Jaskier returned, “Or running afoul of the courtly curse?”

“You have enough experience with the former,” Geralt said, the grin nearly visible this time, “Planning another jaunt?”

“No,” Jaskier sighed, leaning back to look up at the stars.

There was just the sliver of a moon hanging in the sky. A pale little echo of greater glory, and of greater glory yet to be one day. Washing in and out like the tide. He was like the little moon, he decided, fading into the darkness that haunted the world. But his songs, his songs would wax full again, spilling over with his life.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t save the child surprise,” Jaskier finally said, “I know you never wished her ill.”

Geralt’s hands stilled, and Jaskier swallowed. Clearly it was a sore subject for the other man, and Jaskier cursed himself. He shouldn’t have even brought it up, there could only be heartache there. Geralt was a proud man, and a good one. He would have moved the heavens to have saved that girl.

“She’s safe,” he growled.

“But the rumors,” Jaskier whispered, “Safer dead than living.”

He smiled, sitting up, lute in hand. Oh, this was such wonderful news. The girl was safe, his wolf wasn’t lost. He still had purpose, still had a calling beyond throwing himself at death to save ungrateful others. He had saved her, destiny would have plans for the both of them.

“I’ll compose a magnificent ballad for her,” he decided, “Something wonderful and beautiful. The white wolf and his lion cub, destined to save the world.”

“Stop,” Geralt snapped, “Go to sleep.”

Jaskier just rolled his eyes and sighed. Of course she was safe, he never should have doubted otherwise. Geralt and Yennifer, between the two of them the girl would be able to take on the world and damn any that stood in their way. It would make for an amazing ballad, strong and true. A gift for the budding little family. The least he could do for Geralt’s little daughter. 

Jaskier put his lute away, coughing lightly to clear his throat and pulling a few spare petals from his mouth. He wished he could meet the girl and sing the song for her himself one day. But, as he tucked the petals into the little pouch at his waist, he doubted that was in the cards for his destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A touch light on the angst, I do apologize for that. But dark days are coming, that I promise. In the grim future of angst, there are no cookies to comfort us! Except there are, because there are always cookies. Always.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier opened his mouth, only to be met with chill water. He tried to struggle, but the hands wrapped tightly around him and continued to pull him down, leaving only a dark memory of sunlight lingering above him. He coughed against the water, still struggling to breath, but only watched a petal float toward the surface.

He watched the petal turning, he hadn’t realized the river was this deep, as his vision began to fade around the edges. There was blood now, he saw, probably from the drowner that had grabbed him. He had never realized how painful their claws were. Not that he felt anything in the icy water. Probably from a mountain source to still be this cold, he noted randomly. That would be important for a song.

There wasn’t a song. He never got to write his ballad, there wasn’t anything for anyone to remember him by. 

Jaskier gasped as he was grabbed and pulled upward to the surface. The river gave him up, and Geralt hauled him to the riverbank, his sword still at the ready, ignoring the corpse of the headless drowner as it floated by. Jaskier lay there, on his side, staring at the bloody scene.

Sunset streaked the sky gold and bled into the river, and there stood Geralt, strong and true. His sword dripped crimson into the water, but still the man held his ground. Jaskier gasped, trying to shake the river water from his lungs, and watching the muck slush out with shredded petals. Half a blossom, torn and tattered, finally dislodged and let him vomit.

Roses weren’t poetic and they weren’t beautiful, he decided. They were rank, and filled him with fear. He could barely catch his breath, their flimsy velvet sticking in his throat, and he would never forget the noxious taste. A sour promise that lingered long after it was broken. 

“Come on,” Geralt growled, slowly backing out of the river and grabbing for Jaskier’s arm.

“M’sorry,” Jaskier coughed, leaning over to wretch again.

Geralt’s face wrinkled, but he ignored the sight, his focus still on the water. Where there was one drowner, there were usually others. Jaskier had thought running water, a clear and gentle river, would be safe. Clearly he was wrong. Geralt was going to have his hide for this.

“What the fuck were you thinking,” Geralt finally snapped, hauling a beleaguer bard back toward the campsite.

“Needed water,” Jaskier tried to explain, finally getting his feet under him and following after the larger man.

When had it gotten so cold? He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself and trying to avoid tripping over roots. How had he wandered so far from camp? He was lucky Geralt had found him at all. In the lengthening shadows of sunset, the entire forest looked different.

“Sit,” Geralt growled, hauling Jaskier near to the fire and stomping off toward where Roach was nibbling at the grass.

Jaskier continued to shiver, curling up tighter and staring at the small cook fire. He had just wanted to get some water. Roach had already been watered for the evening, but he had needed some for his tea. 

He had forgotten how taxing traveling the roads with Geralt could be at times. Little bathing, sleeping rough. And cold meals. He had managed to have his tea in the evenings, drinking doses three or four times stronger than what the healer had shown him, but he couldn’t drink it any other time. He had tried drinking it cold but it had been bitter and nearly made him sick. 

The shivering bard jumped as Geralt’s thick traveling cloak was dumped on him. He glanced up, pulling it tightly around him, and watched as Geralt went back to the other side of the fire and picked up a freshly killed hare. Jaskier closed his eyes, and shifted the fabric to his nose to breathe in.

He spluttered and coughed, and pulled away quickly enough. The cloak was rank. Of course it was. Geralt considered bathing a luxury, and clothes cleaning several levels lower on his list of not giving a shit. He doubted the cloak had ever met a piece of soap. He could only hope he wouldn’t catch anything infectious off it. The thought nearly made him chuckle.

Getting killed by Geralt’s diseases while dying of Geralt. It was a poetic irony that he would rather avoid.

Jaskier continued to cough, trying to clear his lungs and pull petals and blossoms from his mouth without the witcher noticing. Given the ire he was showing the poor dead hare, he doubted that he would notice much but something that needed a good swording any time soon. 

Geralt’s eyes flared angrily in the dying light as he glared over the now roasting hare at Jaskier, and Jaskier just shivered and looked back at the fire. He had a change of clothes in his bag, but he was too cold to move and too frightened to ask for it. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you ask,” Geralt finally snapped.

Jaskier blinked at him owlishly, confused. His mind was having difficulty connecting the dots, and he was desperately lost at this point of the conversation he and Geralt had very clearly not been having. 

“The water,” Geralt finally reminded him.

Jaskier nodded, staring at the fire and avoiding looking at the other man. 

“Needed water for tea,” Jaskier rasped, “Didn’t think it was dangerous.”

Geralt just snorted, turning the hare and watching the fat drip into the fire. 

“You and your fucking tea,” Geralt growled, standing and storming off into the forest.

He liked his tea, Jaskier wanted to defend. He didn’t, really. It tasted awful, and when he brewed it too strong it made him dizzy, but it helped. It kept him from pulling flowers from him mouth and from thinking about the thorns that would start growing soon. He had been warned about the thorns that would drive through his flesh and rip him apart from the outside in.

Every healer he had met had told him to confess and cure the disease, or offered him herbs that would let him sleep eternally before the thorns began their awful work. It was worse than death, he had been told. Vomiting blood and blossoms until he was nothing more than a howling corpse.

Not that any of the healers had actually ever seen the disease. Even Jaskier had just thought it was a myth other bards crooned when they ran out of dramatic ways to express the power of true love. He had always scoffed at the tales; they were enjoyable to listen to but as false as his grandmother’s wig.

Until he was the one coughing up flowers and it wasn’t.

Geralt returned, and Jaskier was amazed to see the small pot of water. The witcher didn’t say a word as he placed it on a stone near the fire, building it higher, and motioned for the bard to come closer.

“You’ll get sick,” the white hair man said, avoiding looking at Jaskier as he rotated the hare once more.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, watching the water beginning to boil.

“I thought I told you to quit bathing in that rose oil crap,” Geralt said, and Jaskier tried to swallow down his next coughing fit.

“It’s the tea,” Jaskier said, “Helps the throat.

Geralt just snorted, and tossed Jaskier his tea pouch. Triple strength tonight, he decided. He could already barely breath because of the water, he’d choke to death on roses in his sleep if he wasn’t careful. Maybe if he hadn’t struggled so much this wouldn’t be a problem.

No, he shook his head, death by drowner wasn’t the way he wanted to go. He wanted something poetic. Something poignant. Something that wasn’t a useless death because he was too stupid to stay away from a monster infested river at sunset no matter how many times he had been warned before. He’d rather not be the sparkling example to any bards that followed in his footsteps on what not to do.

Don’t fall in love with a witcher would be number one on his list of advice, though. Don’t fall in love with a witcher that had bound his heart to a frightening and powerful sorceress would be footnote on top of that.

“We’ll find you better tea in the next town,” Geralt said, holding out part of the hare in offering to the bard, “I don’t like the smell of this one.”

Jaskier just smiled and nodded, accepting the meat.

Don’t be so human you become a forlorn ballad yourself, he decided, would be the best piece of advice he could give anyone. It wasn’t the romantic fantasy that the tales made it out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no happiness, there is simply misery in the shape of a bard that looks like a half drowned mouse.
> 
> There is still Roach, on the other hand, that is wondering why her dinner was nearly interrupted by having to deal with these two morons. Because, really, Roach is the true hero of the story. Roach is always the hero, because Roach is the only one with any common sense.


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier was surprised to find a small fire already happily heating water when he woke in the morning, and that he was still covered in Geralt’s jacket. A shift to sit up found that he had also acquired the witcher’s blanket during the night too. He rolled his eyes, for all that the stoic man proclaimed to not give two shits, he had a kindness that was echoed only by the deepest oceans.

“Drink you tea and let’s go,” Geralt growled, a piece of wood flashing in his hands.

Jaskier just nodded, trying not to cough as he quickly downed the half brewed tea. This was certainly a change of pace, but he would welcome it with open arms. He lungs burned and his throat was killing him, and he didn’t believe it was solely because of the flowers this time. Leave it to him to probably pick up some sort of flesh eating virus from the river he had managed to be saved from.

“Thanks,” Jaskier rasped, his voice more gravel than human, and he winced as the effort burned down his throat.

Geralt just frowned and shook his head. Jaskier sighed, and yawned. He was not a man of mornings. Mornings were best experienced in a soft bed after a pleasant night. And, preferably, sometime after noon.

“Drink this,” Geralt said, beginning to unwind the bard from his cocoon of borrowed blankets and handing him a small vial.

Jaskier stared at it and sighed. It wasn’t a witcher potion, but it would undoubtedly taste vile and make him regret opening it. With a quick swig he grimaced and handed the now empty glass back to Geralt, and wished he still had more tea to wash the taste down with.

“It should prevent a fever,” Geralt said, packing the last of their things on Roach, “We’re three days from the nearest town. I don’t need you slowing me down.”

Jaskier folded his own bedroll and slung his lute over his shoulder as Geralt smother the fire, and licked at the top of his mouth, trying to dislodge the taste. Where the hell was he getting these concoctions? The healer should be strung up and stoned for this level of nastiness.

“And there we’ll find your lilac eyed maiden fair, I take it,” Jaskier rasped.

He was surprised to find that his throat was already feeling better. Maybe whatever Geralt had given him had worked. He should ask about the brewer, they may have something stronger than his tea for his own ailment. A few extra years, even if it meant a sour tongue, would be nice to look forward to.

Geralt paused as he mounted Roach, and then nodded with a glower. He should have expected as much, those two loved to fight as much as they loved to fuck. It was a match made in heaved for stubborn morons that couldn’t see what was right in front of them. A few encouraging bumps in the right direction could help, though. 

He wouldn’t want Geralt to be so stubborn as to be alone after he was gone. The witcher, determined as he was, did need people. And he needed people needing him. He couldn’t become a stone in the river once again. Jaskier wouldn’t allow it.

“You know, if you perhaps got her a gift, a charming trinket, maybe she would meet you with less ire,” Jaskier suggested as they set off, trotting happily behind, “A magical bauble, or a song! I could compose you such a beautiful song that she would be awestruck with love. Of course, it wouldn’t work because I would have to sing it, you can’t carry a tune to save a life my brutish friend.”

Geralt merely grunted and ignored him. Jaskier smiled. He didn’t expect a positive response. Or any response, really, but he was happy to chatter and occupy the time. And maybe, just maybe, a few suggestions might be able to break through the rock that Geralt called a skull and take root there. It wouldn’t kill him to be nicer at times. Well, with Yennifer it might, she was a tricky one, but the world was softening on witchers a little, and perhaps it would soften more if he returned the favor.

* * *

They made camp early in the evening, and Geralt glared and stormed off to get water himself while Jaskier gathered firewood. Truth be told, the bard was grateful not to be near the water again. No matter how safe he was assured the currents were, he wasn’t sure he could really trust a river again. Not while he still needed to breath.

So he quickly lost himself in the forest near camp, and hid in the roots of a large, upturned tree. He had easily blamed his coughing on the road on water still in his lungs, but hiding the rose petals had been much harder work. He was lucky he knew a little sleight of hand, enough to disappear them up his sleeves without notice.

But now, alone, he could let himself hack and choke without bringing Geralt’s attention down on him. The last thing he needed the witcher to know was that he was sick. He didn’t want to worry the man. Geralt had enough on his plate as it was.

Jaskier gasped through his coughs until he finally managed to clear an entire rose blossom from his throat. He stared at it, covered in bile and blood, as it lay in the dirt. That wasn’t supposed to be there, he reminded himself, he was still only supposed to be coughing up petals. Flowers were for those who were doomed.

He picked up the blossom gently, brushing the dirt off and pulling out his little petal pouch. He started carefully putting the petals from earlier, those he had managed to save, inside when a shadow cross over him. He looked up, nearly dropping the pouch and blossom, to see a furious Geralt.

“What the fuck is that,” Geralt demanded, storming over and grabbing the pouch and rose blossom from his hands.

“It’s a love charm,” Jaskier tried to explain, “I picked it up before we met up-”

“This is what’s stinking of roses,” the white haired man snapped, “I told you to get rid of the damn rose scent!”

And, without further ado, Geralt stuffed the rose in the pouch, turned, and hurled it into the darkening forest. Jaskier just stared as the little pouch whistled away, tears in his eyes. To Geralt it was meaningless, but to him, to him it was his love. The physical tokens of his love, something he treasured. Those little pieces of velvet were to be his burial shroud.

“You whoreson,” Jaskier snapped, glaring at the other man, “Those were mine! You don’t know what they cost me, how important they were!”

“They smelled of blood and death,” Geralt growled, standing his ground, “They’re not worth whatever you paid.”

Jaskier stood in the growing twilight as the witcher stormed away.

“Come back to the fire, your fucking tea is ready,” Geralt snapped, not even turning as he disappeared into the darkness.

Not even worth what he paid. Jaskier wavered and then sat down in the dirt where he had coughed up the flower just a few minutes before. They were his love. He had already paid for them, would pay for them until he had no breath left in his lungs to offer. He wiped at his face, trying to dry the tears, and took in a deep breath.

It echoed through his lungs as he turned to cough, gagging on a few more petals. He spat them on the ground and turned back toward camp. He couldn’t risk keeping them on his person anymore. Not if Geralt could scent them so easily. He would have to pick up a scent to overpower the roses when they finally got to the next town. Anything.

Anything that would soothe Geralt’s ire.

* * *

The town Geralt had agreed to meet Yennifer in was on the smaller side, but large enough that Jaskier was sure he could find a healer to get a new suppl of tea, and perhaps some scents to cover up the linger smell of rose that Geralt still complained about.

He had tried to be careful, but it seemed the blossoms’ scent clung to him no matter what he tried. He hadn’t bathed in days, he smelled of sweat and smoke he was sure, and yet even the faintest trace of floral seemed to enrage the witcher. He had even banned the bard from plucking blossoms along the way.

“Have your merry way with your lady love,” Jaskier smiled as they approached the town gates, “I’m off to find new strings for my poor lute. I fear that travel is more difficult for her than for I.”

He knew his voice was cracking, his nerves dancing through his body like an over tuned piano, but there was nothing he could do. He wanted to travel with Geralt until the ends of the world, but he didn’t think he could stand to see the man embrace another. Not with the fiery passion that twisted the white haired witcher and his lady sorceress together. It would be too much.

Leaving was best now. He could work his way to the coast from here, the weather was still pleasant. A small inn in a fishing town would be nice. He could watch the waves crest over the rocks everyday until he joined them.

Geralt’s hand was firm on Jaskier’s arm as he turned to leave, and Jaskier turned to stare. They had barely exchanged a word in two days. Not since Geralt had ripped his blossoms from his hands and tossed them away in the dark. He couldn’t bring himself to break the silence, blaming a bad string on his lute for his woes.

And Geralt had let the silence stand, merely growling about the ever present scent of flowers and glaring into the distance. But there had still been hot water for his tea morning and night, so Jaskier took it as a sign that his anger had been tempered. But the bard didn’t want to press his luck. He remembered the last time he had overstayed his welcome with the witcher, and he had no desire to hear such burning words shred their way into his heart once more.

“We’re staying at the Water Fowl, by the east gate,” Geralt said.

“Have fun with-”

“You can pay me back for the room later,” Geralt cut him off.

Jaskier swallowed and nodded.

Maybe there were still a few rays of brightness left in his sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt can't possibly become more of a dick...
> 
> *Geralt throws the symbol of Jaskier's love for him into a dark forest*
> 
> Well, I stood corrected on that one!


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt ignored Yennefer as he quaffed his second mug of ale. The whole world was itching at him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something. That scent, that damn scented of blood and roses, wouldn’t stop lingering. That fool bard must have been carrying his damn charm for ages for it to seep in so deep that even a dunking in the river couldn’t wash it from his clothes.

Yennefer raised an eyebrow as she sipped on her single goblet of wine as Geralt motioned for a third mug.

“You’re thirsty,” she commented nonchalantly, “Your horse reject you?”

“Long week,” Geralt said, taking a drink from the third mug, and then putting it down suddenly.

She was right. She was always right, no matter how much it angered him. A few days on the road, no matter how annoying they had been, shouldn’t turn him into the town drunk. And, when sparring with Yennefer, he needed his wits about him. His cock too, preferably, if she were willing.

“Bad hunt,” she asked, her fingers carefully tracing the rim of the goblet.

“Jaskier had some damn charm on him that stank to high heaven,” Geralt growled, “I can’t get the stench out of my nose.”

“You’re still traveling with your friend,” Yennefer asked, almost sounding surprised.

Geralt nodded, taking another deep sip of his ale. He probably shouldn’t worry about getting drunk, the piss was nearly weak as water as it was. 

“Must be quite the charm to get you in such a fuss, do tell,” Yennefer grinned, motioning for details.

Geralt paused and glowered. He didn’t even know what the damn charm was for in the first place, and he felt a little guilty for tossing it when he found it, but the stench of it. He wrinkled his nose to even think of it.

“It wasn’t magic. Just a damn pouch full of rotting bloody roses,” Geralt snapped, “He kept playing with it, pulling the petals in and out and spreading the smell, so I tossed it in the woods. Let the fucking squirrels eat the damn thing.”

“A witcher scared of a few rose petals,” Yennefer smirked, “Now I’ve seen everything.”

“It wasn’t just a few rose petals dammit,” Geralt growled.

How did he put this into words? Flowery sayings didn’t drip from his lips like they did Jaskier’s. He was all sword and force, ready for battle, not to pluck the tinglings in the back of his mind and put them in a sensible order.

“They smelled wrong,” Geralt finally attempted to explain, “Like a graveyard. A half buried corpse rotting in a flooded graveyard. All drenched in rose oil. That smell didn’t belong on him. It was wrong. He shouldn’t smell like that dammit, like a waiting corpse.”

Yennefer paused, a curious look passing over her face, before she took another sip of her wine. Geralt sighed. Of course she would know what the damn thing was about. Knowing Jaskier it was some charm against pregnancy, though that wouldn’t keep jealous husbands from chasing him out windows any time soon. Maybe to make the jealous husbands join in? Who knew with the bard and the trouble he got into when Geralt wasn’t around to pull him out of it.

“You know what it was,” Geralt said, finishing off the third mug with a long gulp.

“No,” Yennefer finally admitted, “But it rings an old bell. It’s probably nothing. So much old herblore is these days.”

Geralt nodded. It was true. The world was changing.

“So tell me about this undine that you need my help with.”

* * *

Jaskier hummed to himself as he entered the small house nestled against the forest on the far end of town. He had to shake his head and smile, no matter where they were, the healers were all alike. They preferred their privacy and their haunted woods. It was a wonder they all survived, so far removed from the safety of the town like this, but he had no doubt that the good ones had protections of their own, and the bad ones simply left empty cottages.

“Ah,” a middle aged woman with a neat streak of white in her hair emerged from lurking shadows, “The scent of love is about you.”

Jaskier could almost laugh at that. He coughed, clearing his throat, and held out the five bloody petals in his hand with a raised eyebrow. It was the scent of love, more not the one she was counting on.

The witch sighed, taking the petals and holding them up to a streak of sunlight.

“Any full blossoms,” she asked, rubbing a petal carefully with her thumb and examining the blood, sniffing it carefully with a sour look.

“A few. I’m running low on tea,” Jaskier explained, “And, you’ve noticed the scent. I need something stronger to cover it up. Perhaps cinnamon?”

The woman just snorted, turning and plucking a few drying plants from where they were hanging from the rafters, barely glancing in Jaskier’s direction. He was sure he was the talk of the local healing circles. A rare and tragic disease linked with melodramatic ballads? The healers were probably placing bets on which place he showed up next.

“I can mix it a little stronger,” she said, “But it’ll get too dangerous beyond that. Bad for the blood, and you’ll start having seizures.”

Jaskier made a note of that. He had been having issues with dizzy spells, and it was a miracle that Geralt hadn’t noticed as it was. But seizures? The man was dense, but not a moron. He’d be abandoned at the nearest town for sure if he started seizing.

“There is a remedy, you know,” the woman called out, pouring things into a mortar to grind. 

The smokey sour scent of the herbs began to dance on the air, and Jaskier blanched. It was an uncomfortable scent, that made him stiffen and brace his tongue. It was not an enjoyable tea, and he wondered what was in it. He would ask Geralt, but he didn’t want the man asking questions about what were surely unusual ingredients. Probably poisons, knowing his luck.

“Yes, I know,” Jaskier waved his hand, “Confession and true love’s kiss. Not in the cards for me, unfortunately.”

“The maiden royalty,” the healer asked, “You’d be surprised how many princesses will run off for true love. And there’s always a few spare somewhere in the castle to replace them anyway.”

The bard snorted at that. And, outside of a few special cases, it was usually true. Royalty bred until they had a few sons, which usually meant a spare herd of daughters to use as alliance marriages down the line. He’d had a lot of fun with a lot of those women.

“And there’s always the love potion. Get the girl to drink it, and a temporary love is just as good as real. You’re cured, you’re both happy for a while. A good life.”

Jaskier growled at the implications. For all that he was known for his womanizing ways, he prided himself on never having stooped to drugging another to have his way with them. They had been consensual trysts, well chased and pleasured. And, while more than a few had left a few angry others involved, it was mere jealousy on their parts that he had been better than them.

“I’m not some rapist whoremonger,” Jaskier spat, “To pour a fake feeling down anothers throat is below anything I would stoop to. I would rather go to my grave an honest man than living knowing that I had taken so much from another. Claimed their love and polished it false until they wept and bled when it fled from their eyes.”

“Alright,” the woman said, pulling down several jars and some oil, “I meant no offense. You’re a better man than I took you for, and for that you have the thanks of your lovely lady I’m sure.”

“And besides, they’re not even human,” Jaskier said, breathing in deeply as the scent changed to something spicy and relaxing, “It would never work between us. I’d be dead in a few decades, and they’d still have a few hundred years to go. I couldn’t do that to them. Lash myself like a guilty weight around their neck and sink them in an ocean. An eternity of mourning a brief love? It’s hell. I would never doom my love to that hell.”

The old woman paused, and Jaskier wiped at his eyes. It was true, though. Every word. His life was a flash compared to Geralt’s, a few bright memories and then he would be gone. He’d already had more than a decade with the man, walking the muddy roads and camping under frozen stars. It had been a good life. He just hoped that Geralt would even so much as remember his name when the last of his songs faded from memory.

“There might be another way,” the woman said, pressing a bundle of tea and a jar of oil into his arms, “No falsehoods or confessions.”

“Oh,” Jaskier asked, tucking the tea into his satchel and sniffing at the oil. A strong scent of smoke and cinnamon, with a tangy curl of citrus. Hopefully it would be enough to keep Geralt’s sensitive nose at bay.

“In the forest there’s an undine’s pool,” the woman explained, “Her lover perished before they could swear themselves to each other, and now she mourns for him. Drink from her waters and it should cure you of love’s sickness it is said.”

Jaskier shuddered, trying not to think of the last time he had been foolish enough to approach occupied waters unguarded. But undines weren’t generally dangerous, if he recalled correctly. Only when they were angered by their lovers. And Jaskier had no desire to become her lover, but a small drink of her magical waters? A few more years to travel by Geralt’s side until mortality finally rendered them apart?

He could risk a little water for that. An epic worthy of an immortal ballad, if he spiced things up a little. Listeners normally did not want to hear of love being defeated, but if he played it up a little he could find a way to twist it into popularity.

“Please,” Jaskier flashed her a grin, “Tell me more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this, my readers, is why communication is a crucial element of any healthy relationship. Also, Yennefer amuses me to no end, and her and Roach are definitely the winners here. With wine. And oats.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of warning, the tags have been updated and may update again in the future. I am so, so sorry.

Jaskier vomited into the bucket again as he closed his eyes and tried to block out the sounds coming from the room next door. The rhythmic pounding had started shortly after he had retired for the evening, and continued in one form or another long after the moon had plead exhaustion and fled from the sky.

The room smelled like a poorly perfumed charnel house as the flowers, full wilted blossoms now instead of the petals that had been carving their way through his throat earlier, flowed freely over the bucket’s side. They were floating on the filmy layer of blood he was bringing up, he realized with a tired sigh.

He heaved a breath in, thorns clawing their way through his lungs, and gasped weakly. Why wouldn’t they stop? He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to hear his gruff voice as she sang in ecstasy. 

He heaved again, choking on the last rose and sobbing as he reached into his mouth to grasp and tug the flower out. Red on red, the bloom preened in his hand, and he sobbed weakly, tears and snot running down his face. 

Finally silenced echoed through the room, and Jaskier hiccuped and lay down in bed, still coughing and sputtering weakly. He barely had the strength to heave and clear his throat any more. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought miserably. He knew they would be together, he had seen them together before, but he had always simply thought of it in the abstract.

Geralt would be with Yennefer. After he was dead. His brain had blindly ignored the chance of them ever meeting again while he was still capable of walking, let alone fucking their way into his room for hours on end.

He vomited weakly one last time, not even bothering to wipe the blood and drool from his lips, and closed his eyes. Let the flowers take him, he didn’t care anymore.

* * *

The morning was an angry and early one for the bard. He had managed to find himself woken as the first stray strokes of purple dusted the night sky and couldn’t be bothered to attempt sleep again. The flowers had been dumped, the blood rinsed, and now he lay his head on an inn table and stared at the half full mug of tea in front of him. It was his second mug this morning, and he was weighing the risks mentally on whether or not to finish this one and get a third.

Would he start seizing immediately? Or was it a prolonged effect that required time to build up? 

Geralt had informed him about the undine Yennefer had requested help with. Apparently the sorrowful water spirit was having issues drowning passing people in her pond, and the town would like her cleared out. Jaskier’s guess on Yennefer’s involvement, as Yennefer had not been forthcoming herself, was that she was interested in the magic water the healer had told him of.

Hopefully he wouldn’t end up on the wrong end of the water this time.

He just blinked as Yennefer sat across from him and picked up his mug, taking a deep drink and then spluttering as she put it down again and glaring at him. He frowned. Had he ever seen her wearing pants before? A sane change from her overwrought dresses if she was truly coming with them.

“Tea,” he said, lifting his head tiredly, “For my throat.”

“It tastes like fermented cat piss,” Yennefer said, her face still drawn in but a frown slowly forming.

“The best medicine tastes the worst,” Jaskier smiled wanly, sipping at the cooling beverage.

“It smells worse than cat piss,” Geralt said, placing a platter of bread and cheese on the table, and handing Yennefer a mug of ale and sipping on his own, “And there’s nothing wrong with your throat that should have you sipping down that shit everyday.”

Yennefer continued to frown, taking the mug from a weakly protesting Jaskier and giving it a sniff before sipping at it again.

“Not all of us are blessed with the longevity and health of you two immortals,” Jaskier hissed, taking the mug back from Yennefer, “If I want to keep performing and I need to look after myself. Many bards do when they start getting older.”

“Piss on that,” Geralt growled, “You’re not old.”

“Geralt, my dear friend,” Jaskier said, looking down into his mug, “I have been twining my tale with yours for over a decade. I have done many things, but become younger is not one.”

Geralt’s fist tightened on his mug before he chugged the beverage and abruptly left the table, leaving the other two staring after him. Jaskier just sighed and rolled his eyes before he finished off his tea and decided not to press anything with a third. He still felt ill from the night before, and even the cheese and bread turned his stomach. 

“That’s not for your throat,” Yennefer broke the silence as Jaskier spun the mug slowly in circles.

“Of course it is,” the bard defended weakly, looking up and trying to hide his shaking hands.

“Jaskier, I’m a sorceress, I know my herbs,” she sighed, “They’re toxic. Something to numb you, and keep you breathing. There are very few poisons that are used to treat a person.”

Jaskier swallowed. He couldn’t lie to her. He didn’t think he could lie to her if he tried, he knew sorceresses could read lies in a person before they opened their mouths. Magic and training and more lifetimes than he could imagine. All he could hope to do was deflect. 

He was the moron that fell in and out of beds. It would be easy enough to hint in the wrong directions.

“How bad is it,” she asked, her voice a whisper, her eyes sad, “Who is it?”

“I’ll make the new year,” he said with a smile, “A few last epic tales for the world to remember me by.”

“Jaskier, who,” Yennefer asked, “There are ways to get people to agree with a-”

“No,” Jaskier snapped angrily, “It doesn’t matter. They don’t, they’ve never cared for me like that. It’s better like this. Going out on top instead of rotting away in a tavern too old to tune my lute.”

“Dammit bard,” the sorceress hissed, “You’re his only fucking friend, it will break his heart to lose you.”

Jaskier had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at that. He was many things to the witcher, but he was not his ‘fucking friend’. His white wolf had more feminine tastes when it came to that department. He had certainly had to suffer through the evidence of that the night before. Pounded into the wall all night, the clear message that his witcher had chosen another. Someone that matched him. Someone that he wouldn’t be mourning in a few years no matter what was confessed.

“The water at the undine’s spring might cure it,” Jaskier sighed, telling the truth on why he had been so insistent on coming along the previous evening, no matter the danger, “If that doesn’t work then I’ll let you unleash your madness on my body afterward.”

Yennefer smiled sadly and nodded.

“How bad, Jaskier,” she asked again, “The charm that Geralt mentioned?”

Jaskier just nodded, “Full blossoms and blood. I’ll make the winter. Have him burn me when I drop. I want to keep traveling afterward. The wind and sea. I don’t want to stop seeing the world.”

He feels a little lighter for that. Last wishes to be known, and someone to do the right thing. And someone to be there for Geralt. Because Yennefer was right, he was Geralt’s friend, and the stoic man wouldn’t know how to approach the death of someone close to him. He probably had never really had anyone close enough to him to mourn before. But Yennefer would be there, and he would sing across the mountains and the sea, and destiny would continue to guide his brutish beloved long after he was a pale memory.

“I’ll find something, I promise,” Yennefer said, and Jaskier could swear that he could almost hear a cracked waver in her voice, “You have many good years in you yet.”

Geralt sat down on the bench next to Jaskier, turning and giving a subtle sniff. He paused, his brow furrowed, and then nodded and helped himself to a chunk of bread and cheese. The oil was working then. He was afraid that after last night nothing would blot out the stench his love had left in the room.

“Find him what,” Geralt asked, slurping at his ale and taking another bite.

“Something better for his throat than that herbalist pig shit he’s been toting around,” Yennefer sighed, leaning back in her chair and nibbling on a crumb of cheese.

Geralt looked between the both of them, clearly not believing the either of them, and then just nodded. Jaskier sighed, his lungs rattling with a cough, and hoped the rumor held true. He could even compose a raunchy ballad about never getting a decent nights sleep because of your beloved and his lover fucking against the wall of the room next door. That was bound to be a sensational hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I am so, so sorry. It... I think it's going to get worse. I'm writing these chapters daily, and I didn't outline, so even I'm not exactly sure though I'm pretty sure I know where this is going and updated the tags accordingly. If you've gotten this far I think a lot of you have come to suspect where it's going too. Even Roach can't ride fast enough to save us now.
> 
> Please, I just made strawberry macrons with a lemon custard filling. Have some. They help. *hands out cookies and tissues*


	7. Chapter 7

Geralt caught Jaskier’s arm gently as the bard stumbled over a root, and shot a glare at Yennefer as the woman looked back with a huff. Jaskier smiled and continued on, grateful to be able to hide the pain that each step had become.

The thorns he had heard about, had been warned about, tore into his chest with every step. At first, from the inn, it had been a gentle itch. But, over the last hour, every breath jarred him and he had had to hang back to hide his coughing with the black handkerchief Yennefer had handed him.

The heat of the midday sun baked overhead, and he wavered on his feet. Geralt had slowed his pace, and Jaskier simply wanted to collapse into his arms, weeping and apologizing, but he couldn’t. He was stronger than this. He was Jaskier, bard of the great Geralt of Rivia, he could take a stroll through the woods to a pond without collapsing like a simpering maiden.

“Just a little farther,” Yennefer said, looking back with a grin, “I can see the break in the trees.”

Jaskier panted in relief, leaning in to cough into the handkerchief again. It was already damp with blood, and he had been carefully letting the mangled blossoms fall into the undergrowth, but he saw how Geralt’s nose wrinkled and knew he was fooling no one.

“Stay here,” Geralt said, turning to glare at Jaskier.

“Why would he stay here,” Yennefer asked, coming back at looking Jaskier over with a frown.

She felt his forehead, trailing her fingers down his face to pinch the skin of his cheek, and flicking a finger against the corner of his mouth. He saw her pull it back with a smear of red, and gave a small nod. She glanced at the handkerchief and wrinkled her nose, but there was no hiding it from her.

“We need him more than the swords,” Yennefer said, taking Jaskier’s hand gently and leading him toward the pond.

“Yen, wait,” Geralt said, catching her shoulder, “He’s bleeding, he’ll get hurt.”

“He’s a bard, his singing will soothe the undine and then we can talk like rational people!”

“He’s standing right here and he’s perfectly fine,” Jaskier threw in, leaning over to cough and watching in a panic as petals fell to the ground.

“What the fuck is that,” Geralt growled, stooping to pick one up, smearing blood and bile across the gentle velvet.

“It’s nothing-”

“He just needs-”

“What the fuck is it,” Geralt snapped, standing and towering over Jaskier, his eyes flashing fire as he held up the rose petal and silently demanded answers.

Jaskier cowered, his back colliding against the firm embrace of a mossy tree, and staring up at the white haired man. What should he say? Should he lie? He couldn’t tell the truth. He didn’t exactly know what happened when a confession was rejected, but old stories told of death and flowers. He didn’t want to die like that, not when hope was a few steps away.

“It’s hanahaki,” Yennefer said softly, placing a hand gently on Geralt’s arm and lowering it, taking the petal into her hand, “It’s a rare and deadly disease. Those afflicted carry an unrequited love for another. The only true cure is a kiss from the one they hold so dearly they would die for.”

Geralt gnashed his teeth as he stared between Yennefer and Jaskier.

“They don’t,” Jaskier stuttered, grounding his fingers in the moss, “Not like that.”

“The undine’s water could hold a cure,” Yennefer smiled at Jaskier, “It’s a chance.”

Geralt’s hands tightened in fists as he frowned between the two, and then looked toward the light ahead. Jaskier’s hasty wheezing echoed against the trees, and Yennefer stood next to him. She pressed her hand against his chest with a frown, and then looked back at Geralt.

“You didn’t say thorns had started growing,” Yennefer accused the bard softly as she rubbed his sternum.

“It’s rather new,” Jaskier coughed, blood splattering against his hand, “It’s bad, isn’t it.”

“You’ll be lucky to make it to mid summer at this rate, not mid winter.”

“Fuck this,” Geralt snapped, grabbing Jaskier by the arm and dragging him forward, “Talk later, drink the damn water.”

Jaskier stumbled after his with Yennefer trailing behind, still holding the rose petal in her fingers. There was magic in true love, especially when it took a physical form. An ancient and rare magic, and she could use it if she studied it. And, if the water did cure Jaskier, then every blossom would be valuable.

“Undine,” Geralt roared as they broke into the clearing.

Jaskier marveled at how beautiful it was. A gentle pond, the scent heavy and green, and the sunlight kissing the water through the shade of willows and weeping wisteria. Jaskier carefully took a step forward, pulling free from Geralt’s grasp, and stared in awe at the rich scene.

There was magic here, he was sure of it. It danced along his skin and combed through his hair, and he breathed in and let it wash over him. He could sit here, could be here, for an eternity and waste away happy and at peace.

Geralt drew his sword carefully, looking around and then glancing back at Yennefer who simply shrugged her shoulders. He pushed Jaskier forward, and motioned toward the water. But still nothing stronger than a gentle breeze echoed through the clearing.

“Drink, dammit,” Geralt snapped, his body tense.

Jaskier nodded, cupping his hands and lowering them into the water. He watched in horror as his reflection wavered and changed to that of a beautiful woman, ghostly pale, smiling up at him and grabbing him by the wrists.

“Geralt,” Jaskier cried out, getting pulled into the pond as he heard Geralt cursing behind him and storming into the water.

The bard struggled as he felt hands on both his ankles keeping him tethered to the over world, and the woman smiled sweetly at him as she tried to pull him further down.

“He will never be true to you,” she whispered, cupping his face and staring into his eyes, “He has already wandered, he will always wander. Join me, be true to me.”

Jaskier thrashed as she lunged forward, pulling him into a sweet kiss, and he could only sigh. She pulled back with a frown, blood on her lips and a flower petal clenched between her sharp teeth. The spell was broken, and Jaskier was pulled gasping from the water by Geralt and Yennefer, and stared as the undine emerged, fury in her eyes.

“You and women,” Geralt snapped, stepping back on land with his sword at the ready.

Yennefer helped a coughing Jaskier up and swore as the bard hacked and spat a rose onto the grass. Of course that would be his luck, he drank the water, bathed in it, and even kissed the undine, but still his love remained true.

“You come to my pool,” she hissed, stepping forward across the water toward Geralt, “You toss in your rejected lover like a dead fish,” Geralt took a step back as Yennefer tugged on Jaskier’s sleeve, “And you dare draw steel on me! Misbegotten filth, I’ll have your breath before the sun is set!”

Geralt stood his ground, his sword held before him, and merely growled. His attention so focused on the woman that he missed the quiet that settled across the clearing. The sun dimmed and the willow trees twisted, their hair sharpening and raising from the water.

Yennefer swore, her hands at her side, and Jaskier stood shakily. The woman, angry and beautiful, stepped from the pond and water bubbled up through the grass where she stood. Geralt continued to glare, his sword frozen, and Yennefer yanked at Jaskier’s shoulders, trying to drag him back into the treeline.

“You’re killing people,” Geralt snapped, “Stop.”

“I’m ridding the world of faithless wretches,” the undine said, taking another step toward the witcher.

Geralt took another careful step back, glancing down as the grass became soggy and his feet began to sink in the mud. 

“You humans are all the same,” she hissed, her voice a bubbling tempest, “Take and take and take, until there is nothing left but a withered shell.”

The water began to thrash in the pond, rippling up through the grass, and Jaskier shook himself out of Yennefer’s grasp. He didn’t have to know monsters to know what would happen next. There was always a sword. A magical relic of another doomed man. The beautiful cliché of the pure water maiden; she could defend herself with steel as well as any knight.

And pluck a sword from the water she did, a beautiful blade of silver that sang as it was pulled from the muddy waves. Her form was true, and she had the advantage. Geralt was standing in a muddy marsh now, and the ground sucked and pulled at his boots He would not be able to quickly dodge and spin from her blade.

No! Jaskier’s heart shook as he watched Geralt dodge, the undine’s blade drawing blood from his shoulder. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer called out too late as the bard, light on his feet, dashed forward. 

He could see the blow before it landed, could see it catching Geralt off guard and slicing through his chest. He couldn’t let that happen. The world needed the white wolf still. There was a little girl that needed him. The world’s destiny needed him.

Jaskier was just the simple bard that sang little songs that reminded the world of that.

The sword slid into him with a painful ease, and Geralt stared at the man pinned before him, eyes wide. He looked up at the undine, her face still twisted in fury as she began to pull the blade from Jaskier’s back, and he howled. The witcher lashed out, stepping forward and snapping his sword down, cleaving her head from her body and dropping to his knees into the muddy grass.

Jaskier lay cradled in his arms, chest heaving as blood flowed freely down Geralt’s arms, sputtering and coughing. Geralt shook his head, pulling the bard tight, trying desperately to put pressure on the wound.

“Yennefer,” Geralt screamed, his eyes wide as blood began to bubble from the bard’s lips.

“S’kay,” Jaskier gasped, trying to raise his hand.

Geralt grabbed it, rocking and staring down at the bard, holding him close. Jaskier smiled, wishing the witcher could have held him like this just once, just once, when he hadn’t been bleeding to death. To stare at him with those beautiful golden eyes like he was the world and nothing else mattered.

“’ove ‘ou,” Jaskier gasped, his voice bubbling up in a stream of red and blossoms.

He loved this man, this beautiful, broken, powerful man. He had watched him face the ugliest of the world head on and be more human than any person he had ever met. He had been graced the small kindness to know him, and sing of him, and love him. Love him with his whole being, until there was nothing left but roses.

“No,” Geralt whispered, burying his head against Jaskier’s neck, “No, no, no.”

“’ove ‘ou,” Jaskier bubbled, shivering as the world grew cold and dark around him in Geralt’s arms, “’ove… ‘ou...”

Geralt howled, screaming into the bard’s still chest, and then began to sob. Yennefer, tears in her eyes, pressed against his side, arms around him, as he rocked and pleaded silently for the bard to come back. His friend, his best friend, shouldn’t be as cold as a stone in the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. *hugs*
> 
> The next chapter will be the last.


	8. Chapter 8

The black shirt clung to Geralt’s back as he swung his axe at the tree again. And again. And again. His teeth were clenched and his ignored the stinging pain as the chips flew, his mind focused on a single task. Another tree. Another tree for the bonfire.

Another tree for the pyre.

He blinked away the tears as they stung at his eyes, his rage focused on felling another tree. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer said, her voice cautious as she approached the witcher from behind, stopping a safe distance away.

She knew Geralt wouldn’t harm her, not intentionally, but he was suffering now. She could feel the agony bleeding off of him in waves. She had let him unleash his sorrow on the forest for three days, but it needed to stop. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer repeated, firmer now, “That’s enough.”

Geralt turned on her, his hair wild and his lips drawn back in a snarl. She saw the wolf in his face now. A wolf who didn’t know how to face the world around him without his friend.

“He doesn’t need a forest, Geralt,” Yennefer said, standing her ground as he turned back to the half felled tree, “He needs you.”

Geralt turned back to the tree, the axe coming easily to his hands.

“He’s seen the mountains.”

The axe slammed into the tree.

“He’s seen the sea.”

The axe slammed into the tree.

“He’s seen-”

The axe slammed into the tree.

“The whole-”

The axe slammed into the tree.

“Fucking-”

The axe slammed into the tree.

“World!”

Geralt slammed his weight against the trunk and Yennefer took several steps back as she watched the tree waver and then tip toward the ground below, the last of the trunk cracking and exploding against the weight. Geralt stood there, motionless, heaving angrily before picking up the axe once more.

“Geralt,” Yennefer kept her voice soft as she grabbed the wither’s arm firmly, “It’s been three days. It’s time. He wouldn’t want the forest left barren, not for him. Not like this.

“It’s time to say goodbye.”

Geralt nodded, staring up at the sky, his tears bleeding down his face.

“He’s already seen the world,” Geralt said, his voice catching, “I wanted to show him the stars. He would love to see the damn things. He loved shiny shit like that.”

“Then he’ll see the stars,” Yennefer agreed, taking the axe carefully from his hands, “Build the pyre. We can light it at sundown.”

Geralt nodded, wiping at his face and walking over to the tree. Yennefer, turned and walked away, leaving him to continue his mourning alone. He needed this, to be able to do this, for his bard. To build him his last sendoff with his own hands. To give him something to do to keep from freezing the world out once more.

* * *

Geralt had built a pyre fit for an army of kings. And there, carefully balanced atop, lay their little bard, wrapped in a shroud of colorful scraps of silk, red ribbons laced carefully around his still form. Yennefer had taken two days to collect and sew the silks by hand, refusing to settle for using simple magic.

Jaskier had deserved at least that much, and more.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting streaks of blue and red across the sky. Geralt carefully lit the torch, his eyes dry, his face stiff, and approached the pyre. He walked around it, lighting logs with tender care, and Yennefer watched as the flames licked hungrily upward.

“See the stars and sing their tales back to us, little lark,” Yennefer smiled, not bothering to wipe tears from her eyes.

Geralt tossed the torch against the logs and joined her, pulling her close. She could feel the sorrowful rumble echoing through his chest, his breath hitching and uneven, but she gave him his privacy. They stood there together, as the sun set and blanketed the world in darkness, and watched the smoke drift lazily upward to the sparkling stars set in the sky above.

“Why didn’t he tell me,” Geralt finally growled.

“He knew what the answer was,” Yennefer sighed, leaning into him, letting him clutch at her, “He didn’t want to do that to you.”

“Maybe I could have-”

“Geralt,” Yennefer silenced him, “You couldn’t. He wouldn’t have wanted that. He was better than that.”

“I’ll miss him,” Geralt admitted, and Yennefer felt the tears as they fell.

“We all will,” she agreed.

The whole world would miss the little bard that danced and sang and brought such beautiful happiness into their lives.

* * *

Geralt packed the lute carefully, securing it in Roach’s saddlebag, the following morning. He couldn’t bring himself to burn it, not this, not this last little piece of his friend.

“You’re riding north still,” Yennefer asked quietly coming up behind him.

“People need me,” Geralt said gruffly, rubbing Roach’s face as the mare pressed into him.

“I know,” she agreed, “But you need people too.

“You have his lute?”

Geralt’s hand froze for a moment, and then he nodded. 

“I couldn’t-”

“It’s okay,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder, “He would have wanted you to have it. Something to remember him by.”

“As if I could forget,” Geralt growled, and Roach nuzzled into his chest.

“Take it to Ciri,” Yennefer said, her eyes bright with tears, “It shouldn’t be wasting away in a saddlebag. It should be enjoyed.”

“He was going to write a song for her,” Geralt said, and Yennefer could hear the unshed tears in his voice.

“Then let him gift her his music still.”

Geralt nodded. He shifted and mounted Roach with practiced ease. The sky was a blaze of gold and pink this early, and he could see the smoke still drifting upward from the last remains of the pyre. He heart clenched as he realized he would never hear his friend trotting along behind him, strumming at his lute, to begin a journey again.

He couldn’t think of anything to say. His mouth was dry, and he just watched the smoke lazily drifting through the air. 

“Find me, when you need me,” Yennefer said, breaking the silence as they both continued to watch the smoke.

Geralt nodded, and with a gentle nudge urged Roach forward.

He had a lute to deliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos and enjoyed this journey with me. I started writing this fic simply because I enjoy writing, and though that, given the dark subject matter, it would get half a dozen kudos, one or two comments, and be bookmarked as 'that mandatory angsty hanahaki death fic that all fandoms have' and nothing more.
> 
> I am glad to see that others enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Tissues and cookies to all, and to all hopefully a fluffy fic on the side to help them recover at the end.


End file.
